


a kiss to build a dream on

by goingaftercacciato



Category: The Halcyon (TV)
Genre: (fair warning: i proofread this myself so...yeah), But nothing extreme, Canon Compliant, M/M, Missing Scene, Relationship Discussions, Some Mentions of Period-Typical Homophobia, also happy second day of their 80th anniversary to toby and adil, but mostly it's talking and coffee, good on ya lads, joe appears very briefly and well...he doesn't do much sorry, just two boys talking about Things, picks up pretty much exactly where ep 5 left off, there is some kissing involved
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-08
Updated: 2020-09-08
Packaged: 2021-03-06 15:09:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26360941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goingaftercacciato/pseuds/goingaftercacciato
Summary: He’d come up expecting to resign and flee the hotel in shame; he’d not entertained the outlandish daydream that Toby would actually return his feelings, let alone ever considered if they could even manage a relationship, being who they are. Whatever conversation Toby has in mind, it’s certainly not going to be an easy one.
Relationships: Adil Joshi & Joe O'Hara, Toby Hamilton/Adil Joshi
Comments: 23
Kudos: 13





	a kiss to build a dream on

**Author's Note:**

> So, this is the first fic I've ever published, that's fun. We'll see how long I leave it up before I inevitably get embarrassed and delete it...Anyways, I wrote this (and way too many other fics for these two) ages ago, and I guess I decided I should finally do something with it, so I polished it up a bit and...voilà.
> 
> This is essentially just one of the (many, many, many) missing scenes between these two that I really felt that absence of, and I just wanted to see these two be able to talk to each other for more than two seconds, so I gave it a shot. The irony is that I'm shit at dialogue, so it's probably not a good shot, but it is a shot nonetheless.
> 
> The title comes from the excellent Louis Armstrong song of the same name.

He needs to breathe, but Adil doesn’t dare step back, doesn’t dare break the kiss and sever the spell that has somehow put Toby Hamilton within his reach. Instead, he releases Toby’s crinkled tie and spreads his hands indulgently across Toby’s chest, feeling his heartbeat skitter against his palm: a staccato testimony to the sudden reality of what Adil had always believed was impossible. 

Adil is not new to kissing; he’s had his share of furtive encounters behind discrete, dark bars in the past, but he’s never been kissed like this before: smiling and unashamed, giddy and eager, washed in the morning light. There is no rush to it, no dread, no unfriendly brick nipping at his back, no stiff distance and aimless desire. Toby kisses him like all those husky-sweet love songs Betsey croons out night after night, and he holds him with such terrible tenderness. It’s enough to make Adil’s head spin and his knees weak. He could happily stay in Toby’s arms forever, until he could forget it all: the war and the world.

Without warning, though, just as Adil is truly beginning to melt, Toby pushes him back, a look of pure panic in his eyes. Just as he had yesterday in the back of the bar. It’s like a bucket of ice water dumped over Adil’s head: paralysing and slithering cold down his back; his mind stumbles, tripping through a dozen worse case scenarios, and his breath abandons him, quickly replaced by searing fear. He opens his mouth—to apologise, to placate, to beg—but the words don’t come quick enough; Toby beats him to it.

“Work,” he says. His eyes fly to the watch cinched tight around his wrist. “I’m sorry, I forgot, I...work,” he finishes flatly.

Relief sweeps rosy fingers over the ache in Adil’s chest quick enough to give him whiplash, and as he coaxes air back into his seized lungs, the leftover fear escapes him all at once in an improper snort. He shakes his head while his thundering heart winds itself back down. He’s been up and down, back and forth so many times already this morning; he’s not sure how much more he can take.

“It’s all right. You don’t have to apologise, Toby,” he says, still relishing the new, sweet taste of the name on his tongue. 

Pleasantly red-cheeked, Toby frowns, his gaze stuck fast on Adil’s lips. Feeling wondrously, perhaps prematurely emboldened, Adil reaches out and pushes his fingers through Toby’s drooping hair, sweeping it back and out of his eyes; his heart stutters when Toby leans into the touch like a flower turning towards the sun: instinctive and delicate. 

Biting back a dopey grin, Adil trails his hand down Toby’s jaw to the curve of his neck and smooths out his stiff collar where it’s gotten rucked up in the back. Then politely, reluctantly, he steps back, putting a safe bit of distance between them. 

“I should return to the bar before Mr. Garland notices I’ve gone.” 

“Right, yes, okay.” 

With a decisive nod, Toby forces his eyes away from Adil at last and casts his gaze about the room with a small frown on his face; he insistently twists the ever-present signet around his finger as if he’s not quite sure what to do with himself now that he’s not touching Adil.

Adil wants, not for the first time, to catch Toby’s fidgeting fingers between his own and lace them together, but he’s not keen on delaying Toby any further or risking his own position. So, instead, he dutifully turns towards the door, but he hardly takes a step before Toby’s hand shoots out and closes around his wrist, gently drawing him back.

“Adil, I...I think we ought to...discuss this.” Toby’s tone is light enough, and the suggestion is undoubtedly sensible, but the words come across vaguely ominous nonetheless. “Will you come up tonight? On your break?”

“It will be awfully late.”

“I don’t mind.”

“All right,” Adil agrees softly, although his own anxiety has begun to creep up into his throat once more. He’d come up expecting to resign and flee the hotel in shame; he’d not entertained the outlandish daydream that Toby would actually return his feelings, let alone ever considered if they could even manage a relationship, being who they are. Whatever conversation Toby has in mind, it’s certainly not going to be an easy one.

With one last squeeze, Toby lets go of Adil’s hand, and he slips out the door, back into reality.

\---

The day passes as if every lethargic second is being dragged through a sea of molasses. The bar remains nearly empty, aside from the most persistent of drunks who beg off a bottle of whiskey and tuck themselves in the corners for a few hours at a time, and Adil feels quite ready to buzz right out of his skin with anticipation. So he does whatever he can to keep himself busy. He polishes every glass on every shelf, takes the inventory three separate times, wipes down the counter, writes out a lengthy list of potentially-affordable gifts to purchase for his niece’s upcoming birthday, reorganises the liquor bottles, first alphabetically, then by descending height. 

But more often than not, he finds himself simply smiling down at his hands, remembering the feel of Toby’s chest beneath his fingers: the stiff fabric of his shirt, the stymied warmth of his skin, the beat of his heart. He’s not entirely sure he actually believes it, what happened between him and Toby in that room, the words Toby had said. It all feels far too much like one of the many idle, rosy dreams Adil’s overactive imagination has laid out for him over the years. 

He glances at his watch and wishes the hands would tick just a bit faster. 

He’s a professional; he keeps himself together and doesn’t allow it to affect his work, but his starry-eyed distraction doesn’t go unnoticed or unremarked upon. Tom, well-meaning, asks after his health several times before accepting Adil’s insistence that he’s fine, just a bit wrought out from the ordeal of serving toffee-nosed wedding guests deep into the night, and Miss Garland keeps a steady eye on him as she makes her rounds, no doubt at her father’s request. Bit by bit, it severs his euphoria, drawing him back down to Earth and setting him on edge, paranoid that Toby’s hands have left legible stains all over him, throwing their fatal secret into sharp relief.

Once six o’clock has come and gone, the bar abruptly springs into life, the dapper men and prim ladies pouring in, gussied up in all their finery. Within minutes, Adil feels exhaustion creeping in on him as he dips back and forth across the bar, taking orders and shaking up pricey cocktails with a ruthlessly straight back and glued-on grin. And when Feldman’s voice pipes up with a cheery “Welcome home, Mr. Hamilton” from the lobby, it takes every ounce of control Adil has not to simply abandon ship and dash up the stairs after Toby. Instead, he tops off Mrs. Benson’s dry martini with an extra olive and passes it off onto Tom’s waiting tray, then checks his watch for the hundredth time. 

It’s only 8:14. An hour and forty-six minutes until his break. It might as well be a lifetime. But he’s quietly pined after Toby for nearly five years; he can hold out for another hour and forty-six minutes. He pulls his sleeve down, takes a deep breath, and screws the cap back on the gin.

“Mr. Joshi!”

A genuine smile slips onto Adil’s face as Joe comes around the counter, suavely slinging himself onto a stool and drumming his palms on the counter. Maybe that hour and forty-six minutes won’t be so bad after all.

“Mr. O’Hara,” he says with a polite nod, already reaching for a glass. “Let me guess: bourbon on the rocks?”

Joe claps, a grin far too charming for radio hung on his lips. “You read my mind, kid.”

“All part of the job.” 

Turning away for a moment, Adil retrieves the dwindling ice bucket and plops two healthy ice cubes in the glass before drowning them in two fingers of the nearest bourbon: O’Hara’s not picky; if it burns on the way down, he’ll drink it. 

“You are remarkably chipper for a man stuck in the middle of someone else’s war,” Adil says, just on the right side of sly. “I take it you’ve had good news today?”

“What? A man can’t just be happy for nothing?” 

No sooner than Adil’s finished it off, Joe swipes the drink up and downs a good half of it in one go. When he had first arrived at the hotel, Adil had rather fancied Joe: new and slick and mysterious in his crisp suits, all Hollywood leading man looks with down-home charm and plucky Yankee defiance strung through his broad shoulders. Adil had been more than happy to see him stroll in night after night and watch him mesmerise anyone who drifted into his orbit; he’d been downright delighted when Joe would sit at the bar with his ragged notebook and pick Adil’s brain about Britain, the immigrant working class, and the seedy underpinnings of the glorious Halcyon. 

For a while, Joe had been a nice, slightly more plausible distraction from his permanently-stagnated feelings for Toby. But after a month, the more Adil saw of him and the more his bar bill tallied up, the more Adil’s attraction to Joe waned and his pity grew. Now he swallows down his guilt as he tops off Joe’s glass for the first of many times that night.

“Of course he can...” Adil pauses, setting aside the bottle. “I suppose this good mood of yours has nothing to do with the fact that Miss Garland is no longer involved with Lord Hamilton, then?”

Joe’s still silence is more than enough of an answer; it’s not often anyone leaves the great Joe O’Hara speechless. For a moment, Adil wonders if he hasn’t pushed too far. He's never shied away from lightly teasing Joe over his readily apparent interest in Emma, but he is a guest after all, even if his suits don’t cost several month’s rent and he cares enough to address the staff by name. And, Adil supposes, it is a bit improper to gossip about the goings-on of one’s boss and the owner of the hotel.

“You know, you just might be too smart for your own good, Mr. Joshi,” Joe says finally, waggling his finger; he sounds vaguely annoyed but mostly impressed, and there’s a slight quirk to his lips that exposes his amusement.

Adil grins and reaches for the bar rag. “And you just might be too obvious for your own good, Mr. O’Hara.”

\---

Adil carefully adjusts the sugar bowl, nudging its tongs to the side, before he places the softly steaming silver pot in the centre of the tray. Hovering nearby, still a bit too heedful of Adil’s apparent distraction and always eager to impress in the hopes of weaselling into a promotion, Tom politely offers to bring the coffee up to Mr. Hamilton for him; after all, Adil had been meant to take his break nearly an hour ago, having been prevented from doing so by the sudden appearance of some tawdry socialite who brought with him a small army of simpering disciples, all demanding lavish drinks at once. But Adil merely waves Tom’s well-meaning concern off with a weak excuse and makes his way to the back stairs.

The dainty cups clatter ominously against their saucers with every step he takes, and Adil’s palms are clammy around the handles of the tray. He does what he can to keep his breathing steady, but his anticipation has launched a full-scale retreat in the face of his nerves’ brutal barrage. 

He hasn’t the slightest idea what to expect, but that hasn’t stopped his runaway imagination from conjuring up a thousand and one nightmare scenarios. Toby could have changed his mind, decided Adil wasn’t worth the hassle or the risk. Fourteen hours is plenty long enough for fear to sow its seeds and sprout. Perhaps Toby will want Adil to resign after all. Or perhaps fear will have soured him against Adil and their conversation will merely be a warning to keep his mouth shut or else. Or perhaps it was all a ruse and Adil is set to walk into a trap, policemen and handcuffs waiting for him at Toby’s door.

It’s a ridiculous thought. Toby is a good man, a kind man. Adil knows he would never threaten him or leverage his position against him; he’s not his father. And he couldn’t have kissed Adil like that if he didn’t mean it. But still, Adil can’t staunch the panic. No matter Toby’s impending reaction, be it positive or negative, what happened between them that morning had been monumental. There’s no way around it. The world had shifted between them, and they can’t simply come out on the other side pretending it hadn’t.

All too soon, Adil runs out of stairs and time. 

With a cursory scan of the empty hallway and a deep breath, he strides to Toby’s door and gives it three firm knocks before he can talk himself out of it.

When the door opens, Adil’s heart delivers a firm kick to his ribs. Toby is clearly frazzled: his hair is in limp, curling disarray, his waistcoat is unbuttoned and askew, the tie that Adil had straightened that morning is now unknotted and hanging slack around his neck, and the top two buttons of his shirt have been undone, exposing the soft white cotton of his vest beneath; he’s silhouetted by the snug, butter-yellow light of his bedside lamp, and Adil’s never thought him more beautiful. But he seems rather surprised to find Adil waiting on his doorstep, and Adil’s confidence takes another crushing dip.

“Apologies, I can go if you--”

“No, no. I’m sorry, I just--” Toby shakes his head as if he’s trying to jumble his thoughts back into order. “Got caught up in work. Please,” he says, ever polite, and steps back. “Come in.”

Adil is hardly through the door before it is shut and locked once more. 

No going back now. 

As gracefully as he can manage with his trembling hands, he sets the tray down on the coffee table and turns to face the music, whatever sort of melody it may be. 

Toby is still stood by the door, his hands wrapped up in each other, his smile somewhat unsteady; he looks lost, hesitant, but there’s no defensive anger, no jittery panic, no acidic regret, just tempered anticipation. A soothing flutter of hope hatches in Adil’s stomach, pushing some of the worry out, and he feels rather silly for having allowed his anxieties to get the best of him. After a moment, Toby bites his lip and takes a step forward, cautious, unsure of himself. Adil smiles and meets him halfway.

The moment their lips touch, a sweet spark shoots through Adil’s body, from head to toe, singing through his veins. It’s the kind of magic he had always dreamed of as a lonely child, and he melts into Toby, tucking his hands around Toby’s waist and letting Toby’s timid, ink-stained hands smooth the weight of the day from his shoulders. 

But it is only a short kiss—they are meant to be talking, after all—and Toby pulls back before Adil can sink in completely. Though, he doesn’t go far, leaves his forehead leant against Adil’s, his breath shallow and warm against Adil’s skin. His grin is positively giddy, as if he can’t quite believe his luck, and Adil can’t help but feel the same. 

Who would have thought? The pair of them—different as can be, separated by nearly every barrier their rigid society had to offer—managing to find each other in the middle of a hostile, war-pocked world: the odds were stacked entirely against their favour, and yet, they fell together anyhow; it’s rather like a miracle when you consider it.

“I’ve been thinking about doing that all day,” Toby admits softly. His hands squeeze Adil’s shoulders gently then slip down to his chest, his right palm stuck over Adil’s heart.

“Me too,” Adil admits, just as soft. 

If possible, Toby’s smile seems to stretch even wider, pushing the years from his face until he looks as young as he truly is. “I don’t believe I’ve stopped blushing since this morning. The boys in the office gave me all sorts of Hell over it. Pestering me every five minutes about who I was so sweet on. I had to come up with some nonsense about being ill to throw them off.”

He laughs, and Adil cracks a smile too, but he can read the genuine distress lurking behind Toby’s smitten giggling. Toby’s never had to hide before, never been the Other, never been put on the spot and forced to lie through his teeth to protect himself. But now, suddenly, unexpectedly, he’s responsible for holding in this secret, this massive, unwieldy, consuming secret that could land him in a prison cell, or far worse, if it ever got out. In all honesty, Adil is surprised he’s handling it as well as he is.

As much as he doesn’t want to ask, he has to.

“What is it you wanted to talk about?”

Toby sighs. “Oh, yes...right. I suppose we ought to get to that.” He steps back, his hands drop to his sides, and the bright bubble around them breaks down. “Um, would you--would you like some--” He tips his head towards the rapidly cooling coffee on the table.

Adil’s never been much of a proponent of coffee; though he loves its dark, heavy aroma, he can hardly force it down without a good dose of both sugar and cream mixed in, and even then he only just manages to get it over his tongue. But as he takes a seat, he nods and politely accepts the coffee Toby pours for him, if only to have something to occupy his hands. He must admit, though, it’s nice to have someone else serve him for a change.

Settling into the seat across from Adil, Toby fills his own cup straight to the brim and takes a tentative sip. He cringes rather adorably at the tepid taste and plops in a dainty cube of sugar. He takes another sip. Much better it seems. 

“Oh God, how rude of me,” he says, hastily placing his cup down and reaching once more for the sugar bowl, his face flushing a beautiful red. “I’m sorry. Do you take sugar?”

Adil can’t help but smile. The British are famous for their politeness, but he’s never met anyone so embarrassed by a simple slip in manners as Toby.

“I do.” 

He holds out his cup, and Toby carefully drops a sugar cube over the brim. When Adil doesn’t pull back, he adds another. He gives Adil a look, brows raised, then adds another. 

“Perfect.”

Adil has always taken a bit of pride in making Toby laugh, but it’s even more lovely to hear now that he knows what that shy laugh feels like pressed against his lips. 

“Three sugars,” Toby says, sitting back. “I’ll remember that.”

There’s so much promise wrapped up in those five simple words, Adil nearly shivers. Toby wants _more_. He wants something _real_.

A still silence falls over them, not exactly uncomfortable but not pleasant either. Toby keeps his eyes down, staring at his cup, and Adil takes the opportunity to study him, drink in his details as he’s never been permitted to before: the freckles that crawl across his cheeks; the irrepressible wave that crashes through his hair, sending it out in dark curling sprays, despite his best efforts at styling it; the strong square line of his jaw clenched in internal deliberation; the soft fan of lashes that flutter over his eyes. It’s something of a duty to fawn over Freddie—the golden heir, the dashing RAF pilot, the charming young lord—but Toby is, in his own way, more handsome by far. 

With his sleeves pushed up and all his public pieces stripped away, he looks smaller than he truly is. In this room, curled in on himself, he’s not the Honorable Toby Edward Hamilton; he’s not Toby E. Hamilton, Oxford’s youngest Junior Researcher; he’s not Mr. T. Hamilton of the Admiralty Department. Here, right now, he’s Toby: nothing more, nothing less. Here, right now, they’re on equal footing.

“I don’t--” Toby takes a deep breath and can’t meet Adil’s eyes. “I don’t know how this works. I’ve never…” He gestures vaguely between them. “Done this before. But I suppose you already knew that.”

Adil adjusts his grip on his cup, gently, as to not slosh the potentially-scalding liquid onto his trousers. “If it makes you feel any better, I’ve never done this either.”

Toby’s eyes snap up. “You haven’t?” He sounds genuinely surprised, stuck in an odd space between relief and dread. “I just--I thought, well, the kiss and the coffee and that night at the bar…”

“I’ve been with men before, yes, but…” 

Adil shakes his head. He doesn’t want to tell Toby the truth, that there were only four, and they were all desperate fumbles with strangers he’d known for an hour at the most and never saw again; it’s not that he’s ashamed of the comfort he has found in the shadows the world has relegated him to, but he’s not exactly proud to have only a string of emotionless affairs to his name.

“A relationship has never quite been in the cards,” he says at last.

“I see...Well, then, I suppose we’ll simply have to figure it out together.” If Adil isn’t mistaken, there’s a certain pleased lilt in his voice. Though, whether it’s because he’s thankful not to be entirely behind the curve or because he relishes the thought of being Adil’s first true romance, Adil can’t be sure. “Make it up as we go. Though, of course, I’ll defer to what expertise you may have,” he jokes.

Adil was fifteen when he’d snuck a book out at the library and saw the word _homosexual_ printed in damning black and white for the first time; he’d hardly finished reading the degrading definition before he knew it was the word he had been looking for, the name for the thick ache that had risen in his chest when he had looked at his best mate in class. Still, it had taken him months, years to fully understand and come to terms with what being a homosexual meant: accepting his attraction to men, learning to ignore the hateful, violent disdain that seeped in all around him, dodging pointed questions, coming to recognise the signals of similarity in the men that he encountered, living with enduring loneliness. 

It has been an uphill battle, yet unfinished, and no one has ever been there to lend him a hand. But perhaps he can be there for Toby, pull him up to the ledge he has climbed to on his own, so they can make their way to the top, hand-in-hand.

“We can take our time. There’s no need to rush anything,” Adil says, though he’s all too aware that time is not exactly a luxury they can afford. Not as two men stuck in the middle of a war.

Toby nods, a response on the tip of his tongue, but his contemplative answer is stopped up by a tottering yawn.

Adil chuckles and suffers a short sip from his unappealing coffee to hide the frightfully fond smile curling on his lips. “Bored of me already?”

Rubbing at his bleary eyes, Toby shakes his head with a grin of his own. “Not at all.” He polishes off his cup and pours himself another helping. “I didn’t sleep very well last night after...”

He stops himself, but the unsaid words slip out into the air between them anyhow. Though he knows that he’s done nothing wrong, Adil apologises. He never meant to shove Toby off the uncomfortable but secure cliff of the man he was raised to be and send him crashing into foggy, uncharted waters of the feelings he has so long held at bay. But Toby is quick to wave him off again. 

“It’s not your fault...Well, I suppose in a way it is, but--I just--I couldn’t stop thinking. About what happened...The kiss...The look on your face...How I ran off like a coward.” 

Adil, instinctively, wants to speak up in Toby’s defence—he should hardly blame himself for reacting the way he did, especially when most men would have immediately had Adil arrested or worse—but he bites his tongue and lets Toby say what he needs to say.

“All night, I kept...seeing it in my head, over and over. And there was this... _knot_ in my stomach, and every second, it only grew worse. Because when you kissed me, it…” He hesitates, squeezing his cup tight enough that his knuckles turn a shade of white startlingly close to that of the porcelain, tight enough that Adil worries it may shatter against his soft palm. “I liked it. It felt right and wonderful and perfect. As if...after being suffocated my entire life, I had finally taken my first breath. But I--I didn’t understand, I _couldn’t_ understand why--” He shakes his head, his cheeks a livid red. “Or I did, but I just...Didn’t want to admit it. Even in my own thoughts, it was...too much, too big, too dangerous. And I decided that I...that I’d just forget about it. Go on as if it had never happened...But then, this morning, you came up, and...And just seeing you, I--I needed you to kiss me again. I felt as if...as if I couldn’t live another second if you didn’t.”

Adil isn’t quite sure how to respond. Though he’s more of a listener than a talker himself, he’s always been good with words, good at winning people over and saying just the right thing. But now, Toby’s stuttered honesty, his unprecedented vulnerability has effectively stripped away Adil’s protective charm and dug up the turbulent memories and choking emotions of his own struggle to understand himself in a world that criminalised his very existence.

The best he can do is tell Toby the truth. “I know how you feel.”

It’s enough to get Toby smiling again, pushing away a bit of his rosy shame. But after a moment, his eyes flick back to his cup, focused on its dark depths as he clearly prepares himself for whatever it is he wants to say next. Adil waits patiently.

“I want you to know that...I like you. I like you an awful lot,” he says, shy as a schoolboy. “And not just because you’re the first man who would have me. I--I think I’ve always--” Clearly frustrated by his faltering words, he sets his cup down and folds his hands together; his fingers reach instinctively for the tiny, heavy gold ring on his pinky, and he tries again. “Do you remember the first time we met?”

Of course Adil remembers. How could he not? 

He had been eighteen at the time, and it had only been his third day on the job. With his magnificent responsibilities including stacking crates, stocking liquor on shelves, busing tables, and running up room service, the reality of working at the fabled Halcyon Hotel hadn’t exactly been living up to his glamorous, idealistic fantasies. So, he had been dragging his feet as he approached the staff entrance for another gruelling twelve-hour day. 

That is, until he had seen a young man leant up against the brick pillar of the loading dock, smoking a cigarette and fiddling with his lighter. Slowing his steps to a muffled pace, Adil had observed him discreetly as he approached, hoping not to catch the man’s attention just yet. 

He stood out boldly against the whitewashed brick, cut like a dark slash across it; he seemed rather handsome, in an odd sort of way that Adil couldn’t quite explain, but his eyes were downcast, and an air of loneliness hung about him, pulling his shoulders down and in. Adil knew he must have been around eighteen as well because he was tall but nearly gaunt, all bones and angles that hadn’t yet been smoothed over by the rounding hand of age, and his hair flopped roguishly atop his head, long by the common standard and untamed by the thick Brylcreem of a working man. 

Everything about him—from his three-piece tweed suit to the light pout on his pensive face to the way he held his cigarette between his delicate fingers—spoke to a lucky life of academic leisure: a life of reading, writing, and debating aimlessly, sat about on supple sofas in swanky salons, untouched by the growing destitution that forced men like Adil to abandon education in favour of a few measly shillings to send back to their families each week. He was decidedly out of place amidst the bleak grime of the back alley, but where most men like him wouldn’t be caught dead, he didn’t exactly look uncomfortable about his misplacement; rather, it seemed he was familiar with the backend of luxury, perhaps even that he sought it out for whatever reason.

When Adil was mere steps away, when the man finally caught the scuff of his shoes on the pavement and glanced up, Adil noticed the thin cut and faint, purpling bruise sitting atop his left cheekbone. It wasn’t an old injury; it was still fresh, still stinging red and clearly painful. 

Suddenly, he didn’t seem so out of place. But the shame that sank onto his face as he met Adil’s gaze was a surprise. 

Adil knew it wasn’t his place, that he ought not get involved, that in all likelihood the man wanted to be left alone. But, as his mother always told him, he was born with a soft heart, liable to empathy, prone to do whatever he could to help, even if it was merely to provide a momentary distraction; he came to a halt in front of the man.

“What are you reading?”

His cigarette dangled from his fingers, burnt nearly down to nothing, and an almost comical frown twisted the man’s face as he blinked at Adil as if he were some strange creature who had shot up out of the concrete simply to vex him. It made Adil wonder if perhaps the man had never been spoken to so casually before, if perhaps Adil had made a mistake in bothering to try. 

“Excuse me?” He asked, not rude but sincerely confused. Adil pointed helpfully towards the shabby book tucked up under his arm. “Oh, um...” He pulled the book out and turned it over to inspect the cover, like he’d no idea how it had gotten there. “It’s Wells. H.G. Wells. _The War of the Worlds_.”

“Is it any good?”

“I don’t know. I’ve not finished.”

“You have to wait until the end to know?”

“Well, no, but…” The man paused and took one last drag from his cigarette. “Yes, so far, it’s enjoyable.” The cigarette, a mere nub, dropped from his fingers, and he ground it neatly beneath his polished heel. “If you’re interested in that sort of thing,” he said, with perfect flippancy.

“What sort of thing?” Adil asked, though he really wanted to ask the man’s name instead. There was something about him, something oddly charming, something that Adil recognised, something that made him want to know more.

“Martians. Invasions. Heat-rays. Sweeping destruction.” His hair fell over his eyes as the man ducked his head, folding in on himself, and he dragged his fingers absently over the cover. “It’s--It’s really rather silly, I suppose.”

Adil raised a brow. “And? Where’s the harm in that?” 

“I don’t know.” The man chuckled, wry and bitter, shadowed over by some past slight. “But I’m sure my father would love to tell you.”

The moment the words had fallen off his lips, he clamped his mouth shut tight and threw his eyes away from Adil’s. _Ah, there it is_ , Adil thought. As it always seemed to be with British boys, the father sat at the root of it all, squashing them down with an iron boot of dismissal and disapproval.

Adil shrugged. “Well, with all due respect, I’m afraid I would have to disagree with him.”

The words seemed to shock the man, as though he’d never heard of such a preposterous thing in his life, but a smile worked its way onto his lips anyhow. 

“I’d rather like to see that.”

“Perhaps after I’ve read it myself, I could offer him a debate.” The man’s smile only widened, but, as much as Adil would have preferred to stay and chat idly, to keep him smiling like that, a quick glance at his watch told him he hardly had the time to dally any longer; he’d gotten the message well-enough in his brief time at The Halcyon that Mr. Garland was not prone to take mercy on those who lagged behind, so he settled instead for merely a smile in return. “But right now, I fear I’m going to be late for my shift.”

“Oh...” Reality elbowed back in, and the man seemed to realise all at once what he’d been doing: fraternising frivolously with a staff member. He stepped away, almost on instinct, but there was a twinge of disappointment clear on his face. “Of course. I’m sorry to have kept you.”

“Don’t be.” Adil wanted to say more, to tell the man how he’d enjoyed talking to him, to tell him he hoped to see him again, to ask his name, but he stopped himself before he could let slip anything dangerous. It simply wouldn’t do to lose his job after less than a week because he’d been so improper as to flirt with a guest, let alone a male guest. “Have a good day, sir.”

He tacked the honorific on as an afterthought, a layer of protective distance; he could feel the man’s eyes following him up until the moment the door closed behind him. 

It wasn’t until later that night, when Adil was clearing a table and Mr. Garland called him over to run an order to the bar for the Lord and Lady, that Adil found out exactly who the man on the loading dock was. There he was: a gold signet ring stuffed on his little finger, his hair slicked back in a strict wave, a tidy bow tie clamped around his throat. He was sat to the left of Lady Hamilton, to the right of Freddie Hamilton, across from Lord Hamilton; there was only one person he could be: the elusive, scarcely-mentioned Toby Hamilton.

His tired eyes met Adil’s with recognition for only a second before they dipped away, and he busied himself with the napkin in his lap, his cheeks visibly pink in even in the low light. Adil took the Lord’s order silently, made his bows, and slipped away, quick as he could, his own embarrassment burning at his back.

Presently, Adil can smile at the memory. How silly and far off it seems now. 

“I remember you wouldn’t even look in my direction for a week afterwards,” he teases. 

He had found Toby tucked away in the bar every night after their meeting on the loading dock: sometimes alone, sometimes joined by Freddie or Emma, but always with his eyes down or turned away. It was only when one of the waiters had fallen ill and Adil had been collared to pick up his slack and carry the orders out to the tables that Toby finally looked at him. It was hardly much, a mere flash with half a smile as Adil handed over his drink, but it was a step forward at the very least. It had taken another week after their brief eye contact before Toby managed to speak to him again, but it wasn’t much longer after that Adil had gone head over heels.

“That’s not true,” Toby says, so quiet Adil almost misses it. He’s frowning slightly, and his eyes are glued to the table between them.

“Is it not?”

“I looked at you constantly. Every chance I got. I suppose I always have.” 

The words set Adil’s heart alight. It’s difficult to believe, the idea that all those years Adil spent pining from across the bar weren’t so unrequited after all. 

“I just...Until yesterday,” Toby continues. “I never understood that the reason I looked was because I found you...unbelievably beautiful. For a moment, the first time I saw you, I truly thought you were an angel.” Heat flushes across Adil’s cheeks, and this time he doesn’t bother trying to hide his lovestruck grin. “And as it happened, when I finally spoke with you again, I found that you were also exceptionally intelligent and charming and genuine and wonderful and that the more I got to know you, the more I wanted to know. It was as if I were starving. When you were made a barman, I drew up every excuse I could to find myself at the bar. Freddie was worried I was well on my way to becoming a drunkard.” 

Toby smiles to himself, oddly fond. “Eventually, I started bringing my books down. I would sit there, reading the same line over and over because I was too busy hoping you would ask about what I was reading again to pay any attention to the words in front of me.” 

Toby may not have been paying attention, but Adil certainly had; he’d been careful to catch the name of every book Toby kept in front of him like a shield, and he’d even gone out and read several of them (many of them turned out to be dry mathematical treatises, and Adil couldn’t bring himself to touch those, no matter how much he fancied Toby) in the hopes that he could somehow spark a conversation on one. But the opportunity never presented itself, and Adil had known better than to attempt to force it. 

“Of course, though,” Toby goes on. “I could never let myself pursue anything further. I could never let myself even _know_ that I _wanted_ to pursue something further. I never even thought to put the pieces together until you kissed me. But, truthfully, I...I think I’ve had these... _feelings_ for you for some time now, Adil.”

He says Adil’s name like it’s a drop of honey on his tongue: sweet and warm, round and bright, a secret only he knows. Adil never thought he could have something like this: a man who truly cares for him, a man who wants him for more than just a night, for more than just what he looks like. He’s having a bit of trouble breathing past the sudden onslaught of besotted butterflies in his stomach, let alone speaking, but Toby is watching him expectantly; he’s laid himself, his turmoil and confusion, bare, and the least Adil can do is return the favour.

“I’ve had _feelings_ for you for some time now, too,” Adil says. His coffee has long since gone cold, but he wraps his fingers around the cup to wring out any encouraging warmth that may still be lingering in the porcelain. “Since we met, in fact...I saw you standing there that day, and...there was something about you. I knew I had to speak to you. I can’t explain it. And when you wouldn’t look at me afterwards, I thought...I thought I’d ruined it. I thought you knew what I was and hated me for it.” 

Toby shakes his head empathetically. “The thought never crossed my mind. I could never hate you.”

Adil nods, pausing briefly before he continues. “I always understood that what I wanted was...impossible, for many reasons. But I was more than happy to take whatever I could get. Even if it was just a few words over the bar every eight weeks when you returned from university. But I have to admit…” Adil trails off, and his cheeks begin to burn anew. He isn’t sure he ought to admit this; it’s rather desperate and embarrassing, nowhere near as suave as he’d like to have Toby believe him to be. But Toby leans forward ever so slightly in anticipation, so Adil swallows down his dignity. “I would always make your drinks a little bit slower to try to keep you around just a bit longer, and sometimes...if I knew you would be in that night, I would practise clever things to say to try to impress you.”

Toby smiles. “Well, it worked.”

Adil has to smile back. “Took much longer than I would have hoped.”

They fall silent for a moment, shelled in by the swinging noise of the lively bar just below and the puttering pitter-patter of the late evening traffic along the street. His shoes kicked off and aside, Toby tucks his legs up under him and fiddles with the strap of his watch. Out of his ill-fitting suit, he seems at once bigger and smaller, not swamped by fabric but still compressed in the dim light. Adil is well-aware that, outside of Toby’s family, it’s likely no one has seen him like this: deconstructed, sincere, human. And he knows that even Toby’s family hasn’t seen him quite as he is now: unguarded, rosy and relaxed with the bashful glow of possibility. But even as he thinks that, Adil can see a thread of tension weaving itself back through Toby’s shoulders, drawing them up as he prepares to speak again.

“How did you know?” He doesn’t look up at Adil as he asks the question, just keeps polishing the gleaming face of his watch with the cuff of his sleeve. 

Adil frowns, brow furrowed. “Know what?”

“That I was--That I am…” He gestures vaguely at himself, unable to push that word past his lips yet. “How did you know when I didn’t?”

“I didn’t know.” That gets Toby’s eyes back on him in an instant. “There were times when I hoped, but…” 

Adil pauses. He’d thought about it too many times to count, watching Toby’s every movement, dissecting their every interaction with surgical precision, searching for any little sign. He’d gone back and forth a hundred times, sometimes quick enough to make himself sick, convincing and unconvincing himself from moment to moment. 

“I thought I was just deluding myself, seeing what I wanted to see. I never actually believed that you were...” He mirrors Toby’s vague gesture, sparing him the weighty label. “Like me.”

That doesn’t seem to be the answer Toby was looking for if the confusion (rather adorably) scrunching up his face is anything to go by. “But...If you...Why did you kiss me? If you thought I wasn’t like you. Why take such a risk?”

The heat returns to Adil’s face, full-force, and all he can do is shrug, clutching his cup like a safety line. “Call it a momentary lapse in judgment.”

Toby laughs a bit at that, his shy, wonderful smile peeking back out for a moment before it’s brushed aside for something far more dower. 

“I think my father knew.” 

His knuckles have gone white again, his hands squeezed together in his lap as his eyes study the bland upholstery on his chair. Immediately, Adil’s heart crowds up into his throat; he knows, perhaps better than anyone but Freddie, what a delicate subject this is; he knows that Toby has hardly even mentioned his father in passing since his death four months ago; he knows that the pain of his father’s determined neglect and pointed cruelty still lingers over him; he knows that Toby has ordered one too many drinks too many times trying to block it all out.

Toby takes a deep, shuddering breath, and Adil braces himself.

“I think he knew there was something...wrong with me. Like he could see it sitting under my skin every time he looked at me. Or hear it in my voice every time I spoke. I think that’s why he always hated me so much.”

Adil shakes his head as his heart threatens to crack wide open. “There’s nothing wrong with you, Toby,” he says with every ounce of certainty he can muster. Not just for Toby’s sake. “Your father was a cruel, bitter man, and if he hated you, it was because you are everything he was not. Because you are a kind, brilliant, _good_ man.”

For a moment, Toby only stares, blinking at him the same way he had the day they met. Only this time it’s not just disbelief in his eyes but a bit of awe, too. He makes as if to stand but stops himself halfway.

“May I--” He clears his throat. “May I kiss you again?”

Adil could melt from the look in Toby’s eyes, but he takes a breath and sets his coffee down with deliberate precision. 

“Please.”

Toby is out of his seat and pulling Adil up into his arms the second the word is out of his mouth. The kiss is unlike the others they've shared. It's hungry, pushing, needing, the pretence of chastity unceremoniously dropped. It’s a lifetime of anger, resentment, and uncertainty transformed into an act of tender passion. It’s liberation, validation, and appreciation all wrapped up in one and spelt out by their hands that shiver against each other. It’s a kiss that promises the world and so much more, but it’s much too soon for that. Someday, in a week, in a month, Adil will take him up on the offer, but for now, Toby has some things to learn, and even more to unlearn, before they can afford to let a kiss run free.

Adil pulls back because he knows Toby won’t.

“For the record,” he whispers. “Next time, you don’t have to ask.”


End file.
